


those who come back

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Troublesome Witness [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Worried Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos deals with a frantic d’Artagnan, a missing Aramis, and a guilty Constance.</p><p>A companion piece to my story 'The Troublesome Witness' - a few scenes missing from that story because for the sake of consistency it’s all from Constance’s point-of-view. This is Porthos’ perspective on things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	those who come back

-/-

They had scarcely taken three steps from Constance’s door before d’Artagnan blurted a sudden curse and spun back.

‘Oi, what?’ Porthos called after him, but he had disappeared into the house again. Porthos stood awkwardly in the street for a moment or two, and concluded with some irritation that if d’Artagnan insisted on changing the plan on the fly without a word of explanation there was no reason to wait meekly for him, and made off down the street in the direction of the market. Only a few steps later, d’Artagnan caught up again.

‘Sorry,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I just – I just thought she should have something to defend herself with,’ he explained, patting the empty holster at his waist.

‘She’s got Aramis,’ Porthos replied, just a touch grumpily, because there was a lot that was fishy about this business and d’Artagnan, all worked up over Constance at the best of times, had not always been an easy man to work with in recent days. 

‘Yeah,’ d’Artagnan sighed, half-wistful and half-anxious.

They made for the market, where the story of the brief fight earlier on was already being passed around in various embellished forms, and it was a quick matter to find those who were claiming to be eye-witnesses. Once these had been reminded that Porthos had been a participant himself, some of the embellishment dropped off the tale, and though they garnered little from the traders that was concretely useful, the bundle of rumours, impressions and observations they picked up was at least a starting point. 

After an hour or so chasing rumours and shadows, Porthos’ mood was not much improved. D’Artagnan was skittering between frenzied anxious energy and murky silence. He was as single-minded as usual in his devotion to the mission, but he was exhausting company. He barely responded to any weak words of reassurance Porthos could muster. They had both lapsed back into their thoughts when an urchin tugged at his sleeve.

‘Musketeer Porthos?’

He grunted impatiently. He dug in his jacket for a coin to offer the lad in exchange for the note, proffered to him in grubby fingers.  
It wasn’t signed, but it looked more like Athos’ hand than Aramis’ – Porthos couldn’t be sure, since both of them formed their letters with the kind of smooth confidence that came of long hours in the schoolroom. To his eye their writing was essentially identical, though Aramis claimed he could tell Athos’ hand easily from Treville’s or any other man’s. 

He passed the note to d’Artagnan.

‘We’re needed back at Bonacieux’s.’ He tried to keep his voice neutral, for all the good it would do.

‘What? Why? What’s happened?’ D’Artagnan scrutinized the note, which gave no detail beyond what Porthos had said already.

‘Probably just to share what we’ve found out,’ he said, taking some care to be casual, though in fact he thought this unlikely.

The door was hanging open. They could see it clearly from halfway down the street. D’Artagnan broke into a flat sprint. Porthos followed more carefully, taking in the broken hinges and the quiet. 

Athos was standing alone in the kitchen. He looked up tight-lipped when they entered. 

The room was in some disorder, but not so much as to suggest that a fight had taken place. 

‘What happened?’ d’Artagnan demanded. 

Athos looked sick. ‘I found it like this.’

Porthos reached down slowly for an overturned stool and set it upright again. 

‘Aramis and Constance were gone by the time they got in,’ he said. ‘The place has been searched, but there’s no sign of fighting.’

‘Where did they go?’ d’Artagnan asked. His voice had softened from accusation to despair. 

‘The Garrison,’ Porthos supplied abruptly. He looked at Athos. ‘He’d go there. It’s defensible.’

‘If they made it,’ Athos added grimly. 

Porthos blinked, and nodded. ‘If they made it,’ he echoed. 

They hadn’t. In short order, the messenger Athos had sent to Treville returned, with word that nobody had seen Aramis at the Garrison. 

 

‘They could have gone somewhere else. Aramis’ lodgings? A church, or a tavern – he knows a lot of places to hide out…’

Athos’ lips twitched doubtfully. ‘Perhaps,’ he said tersely. ‘Depends which way they left. There’s a back door…’

‘Oh, God,’ d’Artagnan muttered, dropping his face into his hands. ‘Constance.’

Porthos rested a hand on his shoulder distractedly, frowning at Athos’ tightly clenched jaw. 

‘Check the back,’ he told d’Artagnan, nudging him gently, and the Gascon shook himself into some semblance of composure and nodded. He stumbled into the back room, putting a great effort into stilling his trembling shoulders. 

‘What is it?’ Porthos said immediately, turning to Athos. 

Athos tilted his head back but didn’t quite meet his gaze.

‘This Barreca… when the queen’s man, Lopez, was taken, he had an escort with him. Three Red Guards. They were all left with their throats slit by the roadside. It was Lopez they wanted; he was the one with the information. And the Guards might have been a risk to them if they tried to hold them prisoner…’

There was a fragile second in which this seemed to Porthos to be a near-irrelevant detail, and he was on the point of demanding that Athos get to the point, please, when precisely what Athos was trying to say fell on him like a dousing of ice-cold water. 

‘Constance is the one they want,’ he heard himself say blankly.

He stared at the floor, unseeing. Athos made an abortive gesture next to him, as if he reached for his arm and then thought better of it and let his hand drop.

‘We have nothing to go on. If Aramis and Constance evaded capture, he will find a way to get us a message.’

Porthos flushed angrily. ‘And if they didn’t, d’Artagnan will find him out the back with his throat cut…!’

‘Athos!’ 

It was d’Artagnan, calling from the other room, and Porthos swore viciously. Athos reached for his arm decisively this time, and he nodded, quelling the rush of dread conjured by the boy’s unfortunate timing. 

They found d’Artagnan peering at a scrap of cloth caught on a nail by the door. ‘Constance’s shawl. I think,’ he said. He somehow looked stupidly hopeful and desolate at the same time. ‘If they left in a hurry, and she caught it on this…’

It meant nothing. The back door was closed and undamaged: the Spaniards who had searched the house had clearly not had to force it as they had the front. 

‘We can’t track Aramis and Constance,’ Athos sighed. ‘They will have taken care not to leave a trail. We must focus on finding where Barreca is hiding. If Constance has been taken…’ He paused to flinch at the combined weight of Porthos and d’Artagnan’s sharp looks, then pressed on doggedly. ‘If she has been taken, that’s where we’ll find her.’

D’Artagnan wrapped the scrap of fabric distractedly round his fingers. He looked down for a moment, frowning, then finally glanced up at Athos and nodded agreement. 

‘What is the meaning of this?’ 

The peevish tones startled all of them, and Porthos wheeled around to see Bonacieux in the doorway, glaring at d’Artagnan as if he were the only other man in the room. 

‘You!’ he exploded, pointing a trembling finger. ‘You have broken into my house! Where is my wife, you dog?’

Athos stepped smartly into his way. ‘Monsieur, you misunderstand,’ he said firmly. 

Bonacieux spluttered, and twitched his head to glare at d’Artagnan over Athos’ shoulder. When it became clear that Athos was not going to move, he finally addressed himself to him. ‘I want an explanation, sir!’ 

Athos nodded swiftly. ‘All I can tell you is that a threat has been detected to your wife’s life. We are investigating the matter.’

‘What have you done to my house?’ Bonacieux gestured around him at the upended drawers, the furniture in disarray.

‘Nothing,’ said Athos. ‘Those who seek Madame Bonacieux seem to have searched the building for clues of her whereabouts.’

‘I wish to be compensated for the damage to my property,’ snapped Bonacieux immediately.

‘No doubt.’ Athos’ face was carefully impassive, but Porthos could feel his impatience from across the room. ‘We must be going, Monsieur.’

‘Wait – you say you’ll protect my wife. Where is she then? You can’t keep her safe if you’re not with her, eh?’ 

Athos glared at him stonily. ‘Another musketeer is accompanying her.’ 

Bonacieux drew himself up importantly. ‘Well, he will answer to me, if she is damaged at all.’

‘Compensation?’ d’Artagnan blurted fiercely. ‘For damage to your property?’

‘Quiet,’ Athos hissed. Porthos gripped the younger man by the arm – part warning, part support. 

‘Get out of my house,’ Bonacieux spat at d’Artagnan, leaning around Athos to look at him.

Athos nodded as if the sentiment had been addressed to him and swept d’Artagnan out ahead of him. 

Porthos followed them, with a cursory glance at the furious Bonacieux. 

-/-

Porthos relayed the jumbled observations they had picked up in the market to Athos, which collectively hinted at a vague location in which to start seeking Barreca’s base. It was weak, and they both knew it, though neither of them was willing to say so. Every minute of their wandering was another in which there had been no word from Aramis. The chance that they had been taken loomed larger and larger until it seemed to surround Porthos, until he felt like he would choke on it. 

An hour later, they returned to the Garrison. Treville hailed them as soon as they appeared at the gate.

‘Any sign of Aramis and Madame Bonacieux?’ he asked, casting a careful glance at d’Artagnan. 

‘None.’ The single word was gruff and abrupt, even by Athos’ standards. 

Treville nodded grimly. ‘Jules and Etienne followed a man they believe to be a Spanish agent to a house in the Marais.’

Porthos’ ears pricked up. ‘That’d make sense. With what we’ve heard about their base.’ 

‘They’re watching the house now,’ Treville explained, eyeing their tense posture shrewdly. ‘I can’t have you charging in there without any proper evidence. If we hear anything, you’ll be first to know.’

Waiting was the last thing Porthos wanted to do, but he was reluctant to leave the Garrison if it might mean missing out on any news. Treville retreated to his office with a hissed order to ‘make d’Artagnan eat something, for God’s sake,’ and they hung around the courtyard restlessly, hands never straying far from their weapons. 

And nothing from Aramis. Neither a message, nor a body in the street. Porthos shoved the thought out of his head, avoiding Athos’ eye. 

Jules and Etienne had scarcely made it through the gate before they were accosted. They were out of breath; Jules’ hat was missing and he still held his main gauche in his hand.

‘Gentlemen. Any news of those Spanish agents?’

Jules looked doubtfully up at Treville’s office, sheathing his main gauche at his back. The Captain relieved him of the dilemma by appearing on the stairs. ‘It’s all right. Tell us.’

‘It’s them alright. No way of knowing how many are in there – we caught two entering. Fought them and questioned them a bit, but they made off before we could get them back here. Sorry, Captain.’

‘You’ve done well,’ Treville assured them. ‘What did you get from them?’

‘They’re Barreca’s men. He’s keeping someone in there, they said something about interrogation. Could be it’s your Madame…’ Jules glanced uncertainly at d’Artagnan, who was white-faced and didn’t reply.

‘Bonacieux,’ supplied Athos. 

‘You said Aramis was with her?’ Etienne cut in, looking to Porthos for confirmation. It was all he could do to nod. 

‘Did they make any mention of Aramis?’ asked Treville.

Etienne shook his head. ‘No. But I had the impression they recognized the uniform. It seemed… well, I think they had seen musketeers before.’

‘They saw Aramis ‘n me in the market this morning, if they were with Barreca then,’ Porthos objected. He exchanged a glance with Athos. 

‘If they know you’re onto them, we’ll need to move quickly,’ said Treville. ‘Get ready to move out.’

The six of them headed directly for the Marais; if the Spaniards had already reported their encounter with Jules and Etienne, there was little point in stealth. The house indicated looked entirely innocuous, and Porthos felt doubt tugging at his chest. 

Inside, the house was crowded with Spanish agents, ten or fifteen at his count, and the fight was messy in the crowded quarters. The limited space turned it in their favour, however, with their inferior numbers. 

Porthos pushed a man’s head into the wall with more force than strictly necessary and looked up to see d’Artagnan disappear down the staircase, yelling for Constance like a madman. 

Once the enemy was sufficiently subdued that they presented little threat they followed suit, moving further into the building until they heard a shout from the basement.

They hurtled in the direction of d’Artagnan’s shout, trusting Treville and the others to take care of the prisoners. A barred door stood open, and beyond it Constance and d’Artagnan were huddled on the floor over a third, prostrate, figure whose boots were as familiar to Porthos as his own. He tensed in grim anticipation and moved fully into the room. 

‘Jesus – Aramis,’ he muttered, taking in the blood liberally spattered across his shirt and Constance’s skirts. 

D’Artagnan gently pulled Constance back to give them space, and when he dropped to his knees he saw Aramis’ eyelids flicker and a felt the first tentative nudge of relief since he’d been standing in Constance’s empty kitchen hours ago. Athos was quicker, and had already bent to inspect the wound, murmuring something to Aramis which made him hum weakly in acknowledgement. 

Porthos let his hand drop heavily to Aramis’ sternum, feeling the chain of the queen’s crucifix against the reassuring thump of his heart. ‘You’re alright,’ he said roughly. Aramis opened one eye and sighed softly.

He shook himself briskly and scanned for further injuries. One hand was wrapped in a stained bandage, and both were encased in a set of heavy archaic manacles – even the Chatelet was equipped with chains less cumbersome than these, which looked like a medieval relic. ‘Let’s get these off,’ he said softly to Aramis, who now opened both eyes in sincere gratitude. It was enough to speed him up. Aloud, he said ‘I’m going to see about these chains,’ and Athos nodded, still focused on the shoulder wound. Porthos hurried from the room and up to where his fellow musketeers were supervising a row of disgruntled prisoners. 

‘Any of these have keys on them, Etienne?’ he asked.

Etienne indicated a heap of weapons and other personal effects taken from his charges. ‘You find Aramis?’ he asked as Porthos searched through them. 

‘Yeah,’ he said shortly, snatching up the item he was looking for. He saw Etienne’s earnest expression as he turned, though, and added more gently. ‘We’ve got him; he’ll be alright.’

Downstairs again, Athos had coaxed Aramis into a sitting position, but d’Artagnan still stood ramrod straight with an inconsolable Constance in his arms. Porthos bent to deal with the chains. Aramis was looking straight over his shoulder.

‘Constance…’ he croaked. 

D’Artagnan met his gaze, looking frantic. Porthos glanced between them, and saw Aramis’ weary face shift to the set expression Porthos associated with his field medicine, the one he wore when he was taking care of people. 

‘Constance was wonderful. You should have seen her, d’Artagnan.’ He raised his voice just slightly, smiling faintly. ‘She was incredible.’

Athos shot him a knowing look, then turned back to the bandage he was winding. ‘Good, good,’ he murmured soothingly. Aramis half-turned to seek out his gaze and Athos steadied him firmly. ‘Hold still, you fool.’ 

‘She hit him with a chair,’ Aramis added, looking back to d’Artagnan as if he had just remembered this vital detail. D’Artagnan seemed to take heart from this, and he gathered his strength visibly in order to support Constance. 

‘Always impressed by violent women, our Aramis,’ Porthos said, discarding the chains. He met Aramis’ eyes and nodded fractionally, catching Athos’ exhausted half-smirk out of the corner of his eye. 

‘I think she’s going to swoon!’ d’Artagnan said in some alarm, and he looked around. Constance, in fact, looked somewhat recovered, and proved this by immediately responding in her familiar firm, affronted tone that she was not about to do anything of the kind, and chasing this remark with a gentle but well-aimed kick at d’Artagnan’s foot. 

Porthos laughed warmly and felt Aramis squeeze his hand. ‘You should have been a musketeer, madame,’ he said.

-/-

Later, in a room at the Garrison waiting for d’Artagnan to return with the surgeon, the weight of a day’s suppressed panic caught up with him all at once. 

He pressed his forehead to the back of Aramis’ hand. ‘Jesus. That was too fucking close. I can’t… fucking hell…’ 

Athos rested a hand between his shoulder blades. ‘I concur,’ he said levelly, though he too was pale and drawn. Porthos lifted his head again to remind himself that they were all here, all alive, for all that Aramis was slumped weakly in the bed with blood all over his shirt. Athos moved his hand to grip Porthos’ shoulder and he felt the faint tremble in his friend’s fingers. 

Aramis blinked in surprise when he saw how deadly serious they both were. ‘Gentlemen…’ he started lightly, and then understood. ‘Of course. You assumed they would kill me.’

Athos flinched at his bluntness and Porthos shot his wounded friend a reproachful look. ‘Why didn’t they? You don’t know the names of any spies, and holding a musketeer hostage is more trouble than it’s worth, as Señor Barreca found to his cost.’

Aramis smirked faintly at that. ‘They were going to,’ he admitted. ‘Constance was sufficiently – vehement – in my defense that they thought I might be useful leverage in getting her to talk. The lovely Constance has enough of a soft spot for musketeers that they were misled into assuming some – particular attachment.’

‘Which, for you, is an unusually delicate way of saying that they assumed Constance was your mistress,’ Athos interpreted. D’Artagnan chose precisely that moment to re-enter the room and blushed scarlet. Aramis raised his good hand placatingly.

‘In the circumstances, I… did not correct them,’ he admitted. 

‘Since it saved your life, I am sure d’Artagnan will be good enough to refrain from challenging you to a duel over the matter,’ Athos said. D’Artagnan made a noise of agreement which came out as a kind of horrified squeak.

(When he had at last fallen asleep, Athos and Porthos shared a quiet toast to Constance Bonacieux’s good heart and Aramis’ conspicuous handsomeness, since this apparently was the combination they had to thank for his continued existence.)

When the wounds were stitched and the patient resting, they chivvied d’Artagnan and Constance out to the courtyard, and Athos left briefly and returned with a clean shirt from Aramis’ lodging. The three of them sat companionably, Aramis drifting in and out and the other two talking intermittently in soft voices. Eventually, Athos stood again. 

‘I should take Constance home. She shouldn’t be out alone at this hour – especially after today. And we can’t leave d’Artagnan to deal with her fool husband.’

Porthos nodded. ‘Don’t challenge Bonacieux to any duels,’ he advised mildly. Athos made an obscene gesture at him and left. 

D’Artagnan rejoined them, looking much happier than he had in weeks. 

‘How’s Constance?’ Porthos said. 

The younger man swayed as he sat down by Aramis’ feet, and Porthos realized he was slightly drunk.

‘Oh God, Porthos. I missed her so much. I can’t – without her I can’t…’ He grinned. ‘How’s Aramis?’

He tipped sideways and caught himself by grabbing Aramis’ foot through the blankets, startling a sleepy snort from him. 

Judging that d’Artagnan was alert enough to watch the patient but perhaps not enough to balance a ewer of water up the rickety stairs, Porthos left them together and descended to the well in the kitchen yard. He filled his lungs with the cold night air and rested the back of his head briefly against the wall. He clenched his fists and slowly, carefully relaxed them. The lingering tension made his muscles ache. God, he needed to sleep. 

Slowly, he filled the ewer and returned to Aramis’ room. D’Artagnan had his head tipped back, dozing. 

Athos returned shortly afterwards and achily pulled off his doublet. 

‘How’s Constance?’ d’Artagnan said, immediately awake. 

‘Well enough, in the circumstances. One of us should find a pretext to call on her tomorrow and check,’ Athos replied. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and checked the patient’s temperature with the back of one hand before continuing. ‘Bonacieux was there. Too drunk to cause much trouble beyond rather boorishly demanding an explanation.’

None of them made any effort to hide their opinion of the draper. D’Artagnan practically snarled. 

‘He passed out before I left so he won’t be bothering her tonight,’ Athos added placatingly. 

‘How much did you tell him?’ Porthos asked softly. 

‘Very little. He was too far gone to pay attention to the details, and thankfully too inarticulate to ask for them.’

‘So long as he knows Constance was not to blame for what happened today,’ d’Artagnan mumbled, still angry at the thought of Bonacieux’s proprietary attitude to his wife. There was a note of self-flagellation there, too, and Athos must have heard it as clearly as Porthos did, for he looked up shrewdly.

‘Nor was it your fault.’

‘But – I recommended her to the queen…’

‘For which she was grateful,’ Athos said quickly. 

‘Don’t do this, d’Artagnan,’ Porthos cautioned. The boy’s elation in the immediate aftermath of sharing wine with Constance had lapsed into melancholy with her departure. ‘Everyone’s alive. This counts as a good day.’ 

Athos’ face was shadowed, so Porthos couldn’t see his expression, whether skeptical or approving. Instead, he looked from a mollified d’Artagnan to the sleeping Aramis and felt more at ease than he had all day.

The apparent peace dwindled away as the night wore on. Per the physician’s instructions, they fed Aramis water at regular intervals, but he became less and less aware of them and correspondingly less cooperative. Since the wounds did not seem to be festering, Porthos chalked his feverishness up to exhaustion and strain rather than infection, but this did little to ease his concern when Aramis thrashed against him, half asleep, and spat water out on Athos’ doublet. 

‘I swear to God, Aramis, if you tear your stitches I will throw all your pistols in the Seine,’ Athos promised grimly, and the look of confused betrayal on Aramis’ face broke Porthos’ heart. 

Wrestling with him as he flailed in distress was draining for all of them. Porthos cursed the strength of his arm when he had to turn it against his friend, even for the sake of his health. Gradually, and more thanks to exhaustion than relief, he calmed. 

The stillness that came afterwards was almost worse. Athos sat in the hard chair by the bed, twitching in agitation as Aramis lay like the dead and seemed scarcely to breathe. Finally, Porthos pressed Athos’ fingers to Aramis’ wrist and held them there so that the wounded man’s pulse could be a continual assurance that he lived yet. 

Around dawn he woke again and seemed lucid, but managed no more than a few sips of water and a bit of partially comprehensible grumbling before slipping back into sleep.

Morning was bright and cold, harsh on sleepless eyes. He stumbled over to Treville’s office with a mumbled update on Aramis’ condition. As he left, he noticed a small figure entering the gate. He had to blink a few times before he even recognized Constance, crossing the courtyard in the harsh morning light. 

‘Constance, have you slept? You look awful…’ He cursed himself as his brain caught up with his mouth. Aramis would have laughed and prodded him hard in the ribs and made some smart remark about knowing how to charm the ladies. ‘Not awful. I mean…’

She cut him off mercifully, asking after Aramis. Too tired to attempt diplomacy, he told her what he’d told the captain, what he knew was written in the weary lines on his face. She blanched and he mentally kicked himself again. 

‘None of this was your fault, Constance,’ he said, reaching out to pat her gently on the arm. With the dizziness of a sleepless night, he heard himself saying much the same to d’Artagnan hours earlier. 

He led her up the stairs to where Athos was still sitting by the bed, wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts. 

This is doing nobody any good, he thought, as Athos and Constance seemed to feed one another’s guilty moods over Aramis’ still form. At Constance’s suggestion, they left her to watch the patient. In the corridor, Athos turned to him in confusion. 

‘She feels responsible,’ he mumbled. ‘S’ going around.’

‘And sitting watching him sleep is going to make her feel better?’ Athos demanded. Porthos raised an eyebrow at his hypocrisy, which Athos had the grace to acknowledge with a shrug. 

‘Looking after him will make her feel better. And he’ll stop being such a bloody awful patient if he thinks he’s helping her. Everyone wins.’ He flashed a weak grin at his friend purely to irritate him, and turned to the passage which led to his own room. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to bed,’ he announced. 

He heard Athos snort at his retreating back. With his mind fixed firmly on sleep, he did not turn around.


End file.
